


Silence Among Sounds

by hoorayforgatiss



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Admitted Feelings, Appreciative!John, Classical Music, Composing, Cooking, Extended Silence, Hinting, Hugging, Humming, John Watson - Freeform, Kissing, M/M, MusicalGenius!Sherlock, Pining, Poetic!Sherlock, Sherlock Holmes - Freeform, Sign Language, Singing, Songs, loving!John
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-12
Updated: 2014-03-23
Packaged: 2018-01-15 10:29:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 4,866
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1301614
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hoorayforgatiss/pseuds/hoorayforgatiss
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In this work, written completely without direct dialogue, Sherlock is starting a new composition. John will cater to his silence and his needs, but he won't pressure him into expressing his new piece before he is ready. Sherlock will capture hearts and crush souls with his new song, leading John to believe there is something more to the reason of composing it than Sherlock's boredom.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

John took the screaming kettle off and poured two cups. Tonight, Sherlock would have some tea. He was thinking and sending his mind into spiraling depths unknown. He didn’t normally drink tea, even on a good day, but tonight was different. He was asking John. There weren’t any commands since the had returned from the scene, and even at the crime, Sherlock had barely uttered two words to the whole of Scotland Yard.

  
John poured just a dash of milk in both and added sugar to his. He then meandered over to his chair, set his mug down, then passed over to Sherlock and set his cup down on the desk. Sherlock was at his laptop tonight, well, John’s laptop. A laptop nonetheless was an odd occurrence for Sherlock, especially this long after a case had finished. It had been more than a couple hours.

  
Sherlock thanked him for the tea and returned his gaze to the electronic screen. Furiously, he punched the keys quickly and rhythmically. He knew what he was writing and wrote meticulously. Suddenly, Sherlock gave a questioning hum. He furrowed his brow, sipped his tea, and then jabbed his chin closer to the screen as if the closer proximity would help his vision. He wrinkled his nose and shook his head, returning back to what he was typing and ignoring the sentence that had so caught his attention.

  
John dropped his book to stare at Sherlock, his gaze never leaving the hunched figure with its face illuminated by the LED screen. His mug burned his thigh, and he pulled away with a sharp inhalation and a soft curse. However, his eyes never wandered from the other man in the room. John thought of breaking the not-so-silent silence, but decided against it. Whatever was bothering Sherlock was sure to turn up soon.

  
Sherlock and John both had long since finished their tea, but neither stood to take their mug to the sink. Sherlock continued working on whatever it was, and John closed his eyes and listened to the monotone click-clack of the laptop keys. John soon started to doze ever so slightly, and soon enough, a small nap carried him away.  
John sat and rested for several minutes, thoughts and vivid dreams swirling in his head; Sherlock solving a case and presenting the news to Lestrade. Sherlock and him helping a young girl find out where her brother had disappeared to, not expecting payment, but receiving it anyway in the form of “Thank you Mr. Holmes and Doctor Watson. You saved his life, and now I owe you mine.” John thought of all the wonderful things Sherlock, unknowingly, was capable of, and warmth spread throughout his body with each new rapid image that appeared in his dozing mind.

  
When John woke, it was to the sound of a Stradivarius. Sherlock had stopped plucking the keyboard and moved on to his violin. He was perched in his seat and stared at the fire that seemed to have conjured itself up. Sherlock stared at each individual flame, categorizing it, measuring it, deducing it. His intense gaze continued to scan the room as his shoulders shifted until they were parallel to John’s. He stopped, cocked his head, and squinted his eyes. He wasn’t looking at John like he normally did when he was deducing. He looked as if he really didn’t know what he was looking for, let alone at.

  
Sherlock sighed and turned back to glare at the fire. Whatever was on his mind, it truly was stumping him. John really didn’t want to invade Sherlock or his mind palace; he had made that mistake once before. John kept his mouth shut and continued to listen to Sherlock’s deft fingers strum his violin. He truly was talented, and why he hadn’t pursued a musically-inclined hobby was beyond John. He truly did love to play and he was quite good at it.

  
Sherlock eventually stood after a very long period of silence and excused himself. He said he was going down to Regent’s Park to think. Fresh air would do that brain of his some good. Sherlock left in a flurry of coats and scarves, and this time, he brought his violin and case along with him, including some fresh sheets of composition paper and a red music pencil. The door clicked shut and John returned to resting in his chair.

  
When John woke for the second time, it was around nine in the evening; however, his flatmate still had not returned. John thought nothing of it and soon took himself to the kitchen to scrounge for whatever edible substances may have been lying around. John ended up having to stick with canned soup and a tomato and cheese sandwich, but all was good. It had been a very relaxing day, what with Sherlock solving the case in just under an hour. They got home after lunch at two in the afternoon only to sit and have more tea in the unwavering silence. John finished his meal, placed his dishes in the sink, and moved to the toilet to run a bath. After achieving the optimum temperature, John dashed into the kitchen and retrieved a dark bottle; stashed in a high cabinet long since forgotten in the back of the refrigerator was a collection of fine alcohols and spirits. Sherlock didn’t like the way the cupboard reacted to temperature and humidity, so none of his experiments were ever stored in it, nor was anything that may have been stashed inside contaminated. 

  
John pulled the expensive bottle of 2003 Dom Pérignon from the blackened cupboard and indulged in pouring a flute full of the fine champagne. He then slinked back into the bathroom and slipped into the foaming tub. He let the tension melt from his muscles and sipped the champagne, even though it was beginning to rise to room temperature. He closed his eyes and listened to the bubbled slowly deflate and pop just as the carbonated drink did.

  
John let out a sigh when the flat door sounded and footsteps padded across the sitting room wood. Still resting in his bath, he snuggled his chin in closer to the water and kept his hand outside of the tub, still clutching the half emptied flute of champagne that only remained the slightest bit cold. He closed his eyes yet again and relaxed his shoulders and arms, tipping the glass the tiniest bit at an angle; however, the glass was empty enough not to spill.

  
A sound resonated through John’s chest. This sound was normal and genuine, warm and sweet, yet passionate and strong. Sherlock took another drag across the strings and let out a dulce crescendo. He continued to tug at the strings in the gentlest way creating a beautiful melody that John had never heard. This new composition had beautiful arpeggios and diminuendos; andante in tempo, and swelling and softening at just the right times. Soon, the sound had builded to its peak when he was just about to play the highest note and let it fly out of the violin and paint the walls with glory-

  
the softest note John had ever heard Sherlock play resonated through the walls. It was silent and ethereal. Ephemeral. The sound carried because it was pure, not because it was forte or strong. It was gentle and soft, but it had a sense of sureness, a feeling of stability.

  
Sherlock let the note ring until the several minutes of delicately pulling his bow along the horsehair had become strenuous and painful to his bicep. He dropped the bow and placed it and the violin in its case. John heard the ruffling of Sherlock’s composition paper being stashed on the stand and a pencil being dropped into the utensil cup nearby.

  
He stood, turned on the shower head, drained his glass of champagne, and rinsed the bubbles from his wrinkled skin. He turned the knob off and stepped out of the shower; donning his fresh boxers, tee, and eventually his tattered robe. Stepping out into the living area, John did not find Sherlock, so he assumed he had gone off to bed. John made himself one last mug of tea and then followed suit. He would have to ask Sherlock about the newest piece tomorrow and what caused him to write something so heartfelt and sweet. Sherlock had never been a fan of pieces as such, the only being Nocturnes, and even that was just tolerable to him. John slinked into bed and thought of the last note singing in his head until he lulled himself to sleep; the clock marking time and setting the tempo for sleep.


	2. Chapter 2

Light seeped in through the cheap, dusty blinds, John’s eyes fluttering and the easy, natural rise from sleep taking place. It had been months since he had woken in this manner. He usually startled awake with a cold sweat and a deep rattling in his bones. Perhaps it had been the bath the night before; maybe it had been Sherlock’s song. John pulled the covers back over his chin and thought about the previous night.

After focusing on his experiment for some time, Sherlock heard rummaging around on the floor above. John was awake, and obviously, he had some questions. However, Sherlock knew he wouldn’t be down for a while yet. John was a man that thought before he spoke, and most definitely shower before presenting himself in front of another person. Sherlock returned his attention to his laptop and continued typing.

Sherlock continued working on his word document. All laid out were words that didn’t form sentences. Bravery, kindness, loyalty, stalwart, caustic, loving. All of these words (and more; there were four full pages of adjectives) applied to John Watson. Sherlock glared at his laptop screen that didn’t make sense. What was stumping Sherlock was how this complex man had fallen into his life as if he would have fit anywhere; as if he were ordinary. John Watson was not ordinary. John Watson was four full typed pages of wonderful adjectives. John Watson was Sherlock Holmes’s best friend.

John made his way down each of the steps and shouted at Sherlock to put the kettle on and not look as he made his way to the bathroom. Of course, Sherlock turned to look and found a grungy, dirty, disheveled John trudging through his hallway. He giggled to himself and returned to putting the water on. The shower sprayed against the tiles and made a metallic pang that resonated in the bathroom. It reminded John of Sherlock’s new song.

John finished his shower and Sherlock had finished his sixth page of adjectives. He had already drank two cups of tea, one glass of makeshift tea (an old teabag used one time too many), and finished off the stale digestives left behind by Mrs. Hudson. Sherlock was determined to figure out what made John Watson fit so perfectly into his life, and coincidentally, you needed to be well fed and hydrated to focus on such an enigma. He licked the crumbs away from the corners of his mouth and huffed at the screen. The toilet door whooshed open and clouds of steam poured out. John, dressed in fresh lounge clothes and his robe, slowly passed Sherlock and made his way to his chair. He asked Sherlock what was taking so long to write up and Sherlock responded with a grunt. He may have wanted to say ‘You,’ but ‘Mhhmph,’ would have to do. John didn’t push the matter.

John returned to the kitchen just minutes after first sitting down. He peered over Sherlock’s shoulder and found exactly what he hadn’t been expecting; a page full of descriptive words. Sherlock growled at him, a warning to shove off before he did it for him. John raised his hands in defense and went to go make himself a brew. Sherlock was intent with whatever this was, so John decided not to mess around with him or his laptop (quite literally his).

Sherlock shut the laptop and rushed over to the door just as John had finished his third mug of earl grey. He stated that he was heading to Regent’s again to get some fresh air and inspiration, flying out the door in a flurry of scarves and cloth. John didn’t know in the slightest what that meant (but he was open to allowing Sherlock some creative outlets that didn’t include burning different levels of decomposing flesh with a blowtorch).

Sherlock never hailed cabbies when he was writing new music. Instead, he slowly walked along, carrying his violin and music folder in hand. Today was the editing day. Sherlock had written the majority of the piece, but now it was time to go in and check to see if everything was still as perfect as it could be. The beginning wasn’t anywhere near being completed, but the ending, in his mind, was spectacular. Something that would leave the recipient’s mouth open and words locked away inside his chest.

He found the usual bench and placed his violin case on the empty space next to his seat. He never played for tips, but people usually threw some sort of cash in. He began reviewing the papers first, then plucking the notes out, then playing it with the same passion he would use to perform it. People stopped and stared, but Sherlock was not phased by the bystanders. He let the last note fly with the same intensity as the night before, but he didn’t hold it out nearly as long. That was reserved for the flat. That was reserved for John.

Sherlock spent the majority of the day at Regent’s serenading the office workers and stay-at-home mothers that took shortcuts through the park. After several hours of frustrating himself and pleasing strangers, Sherlock decided to pack up and return home. John would most definitely be in bed by now, so Sherlock decided against picking up thai on the way back to the flat.

Upon walking home, Sherlock started to doubt his work, and even worse, himself. Clodding down the pavement back to the flat, he imagined John’s reaction. Would he accept it with kindness and friendship, or the admiration and desire Sherlock longed for? He pulled his keys from his coat and unlocked 221B. The door creaked open to an empty hallway, empty staircase, and closed doors to his flat.

He climbed the stairs that creaked on the eleventh step and squeaked when you lifted off the thirteenth. Trying not to wake a supposedly-sleeping John, he slowly pushed open the door and peered inside to find the subtle hum of the shower and John’s singing. It was a familiar tune. Sherlock recognized the patterns and tempo, but the key was all wrong. John was singing the song Sherlock had played when he got home last night. John still remembered it, however wrong his key was.

John scrubbed at his scalp and hummed the gentle arpeggios and ‘oohh-ed’ and ‘aahh-ed’ the crescendos. He sang every bit he remembered and even let his voice drop the octave to let the last note sail. He closed his eyes, stopped his rubbing, and just let the note fill the bathroom with pure, sweet sound. John didn’t notice the tears that slowly poured onto his cheeks. Sherlock did, however, notice the hot tears on his.

**  
  
**

Sherlock made his way past the living area and into the kitchen. Sherlock pulled his finest paper out and began writing. Simple, run-of-the-mill adjectives over and over again, spilling over the pages like water on a shore. Finally, after the singular words had been written, he took to writing John his letter. This was the first step in Sherlock’s plan; Sherlock was going to win John’s heart, and he didn’t have to say a word.

John finally finished his shower and walked out to the sitting area in his night clothes and robe. As much as he hated the stuff, he drank chamomile tea to settle his nerves before bed. He sipped the scalding tea and walked around searching for Sherlock. He knew Sherlock had come home, but just where had he gone? His bedroom had been completely empty and the kitchen was empty as well. Maybe he had popped in on Mrs. Hudson.

John stepped towards the kitchen to place his empty cup in the basin. Upon turning to leave, he noticed several pieces of parchment lying on the center countertop. It was handwritten and faded. The paper was expensive and old; the ink was black as tar and written with a calligraphy pen. In small, perfect, precise handwriting were adjectives lined one right after the other in straight lines across the page. There weren’t any rhyme or reason to these words, but they seemed to strike something in John. Sherlock, obviously, had written this (John would recognize his elegant scrawl anywhere). However, the pressing question had been ‘Why?’

John made himself another cup of tea and sat in his chair to read each paper. There were four; three filled with just adjectives written on front and back, while the fourth had been written as a letter.

_John,_

_I do believe I owe you some sort of explanation for my prolonged silence. However, today, you won’t be receiving one. I wish to apologize for my sudden disappearances and unkind remarks. I have had my mind completely set on this project for days, weeks, months. I have only had these pressing in the front of my mind for the past three. The time is coming and I must have it perfected for when the day comes._

__

_The only hint I will give you, John, is that you must use my skills with the content I have already given you. Deduce, John. What does this note mean? What could the adjectives mean? Please, John, use the brain I know you have. Impress me, John._

_-SH_

John paced in the sitting area long after he had finished his mug of tea. The words played over in his mind, driving him into a euphoric state. John couldn’t help but notice that there was something that made the words familiar; however, he could not put his finger on it. He placed his mug in the sink for the second time and made his way towards his bedroom. He pushed open the door to find a parcel on his bed and a shadow flying out the door behind John before he was noticed. John stepped forward and untied the twine covering the newspaper-wrapped box. Once it was opened, John found three things: a magnifying glass, a mirror, and a book on the Art of Sign Language.

The three items completely stumped John, but he soon went into overdrive. Thinking as Sherlock would, he looked for things to link the four items together. It was long past mid-evening now, and John couldn’t help but further investigate the objects Sherlock had left behind. He searched for hours, looking under different light, under different objects, on different surfaces. John was up well into the night observing and hunting for any signs of similarity that may pinpoint the subject or reason for these notes and gifts. John sat up that night deducing and thinking, and for the first time, he could see how Sherlock managed to have sleepless nights while working on cases. The rush and energy John received from finding new connections was absolutely enormous.

It was only when he had figured it out had John turned off his lamp and crawled in his bed. He had solved the case.All that was left was to present his findings to Sherlock; that would wait until after a good sleep had taken over John’s body. John had slept soundly, and yet again, woke with a natural flutter of eyes and inhalation of fresh, brisk, morning oxygen. However, something was different about that morning, the crisp air had a certain presence to it. John walked downstairs to find the flat empty and serene, not to mention a brand new note upon the coffee table.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The conclusion to the prolonged silence between lovers. Sherlock and John use their methods to express love without talking, and sure enough they are successful (with the help of music and sign language).

John sauntered into the middle of the sitting area. This morning, he had found the new note, went for his shower, made a mug of earl grey, and then brought himself to finally read the damned thing. He sat in his chair, donning only his robe, and read the note while sipping the scalding drink. It was on the same parchment, but it was written with an incredibly dark blue ink today, as opposed to the black ink used on the yesterday’s paper. Perhaps it had always been blue, but the dim light of evening time had washed the color away. The color looked of John’s irises, so dark and navy it is sometimes hard to tell that they even resemble a bluish hue.

_John,_

_I assume you figured out the case. I am, indeed, impressed. You solved this on your own (even though it took you most of the night). I look forward to your explanation. However, I won’t be in the flat until around ten o’ clock tonight. I’m out with…colleagues. Let’s just say Mary-Anne doesn’t have a choice in the matter. Her autopsy is the only option, unfortunately for her._

_John, I do hope you have figured this out completely, otherwise, this may be a very awkward case. I will be at Speedy’s around three this afternoon if you want to meet me early and then just receive your “reward” later on tonight._

__

_Let me know by text message, please. I prefer to know if I will have company or not in advance. Also, if you are coming, expect to have some sort of deli sandwich and a soda. I’m not really in the mood for tea or coffee today. The idea of a carbonated drink sounds mightily appealing at the moment._

__

_-SH_

 

Solving the case on his own was John’s greatest achievement in months. He had been up all hours, and John had finally cracked it without a single morsel of help from Sherlock. John really had been proud of himself; however, like Sherlock, there could be one thing that he got wrong, and boy, did John not want one thing about his conclusion to be wrong.

John chuckled at the notion of Sherlock sucking down a sugary pop. Sherlock did love his sweets, so it’s no surprise that he would love a cola every blue moon. John went up to his bedroom, dressed properly, and then made a phone call. Greg was always willing to talk and have a beer, so John wanted to see if he was up for some darts down at a pub.

Greg Lestrade, considerate and kind, but he could jerk the chain. John laughed and smiled at all of his jokes and comments about the women in the corner of the room. John asked on how he and Mycroft were faring as a new couple since Greg’s divorce had just passed through the system (without help from Mycroft, of course. Why would he do such a thing?).

John loved sitting and talking with the DI. He always knew what to and not to say, no matter the person. If Sherlock wasn’t his best friend (which he is, of course), Greg Lestrade would have been. Greg eventually had to leave the pub for a domestic call between a girl and her boyfriend, giving a quick goodbye and rushing out of the pub.

John made his way back to the flat. He didn’t bother hailing a cab. John thought about how he had solved the case, and a big grin spread across his face. He started giggling his breathy giggle and shook his head at himself. How could John have been so blind?

**  
  
**

Sherlock did, in fact, show up at Speedy’s at three in the afternoon, and he had ordered John a cream cheese, tomato, lettuce, and turkey sandwich with a coca-cola. When John sat at the table, Sherlock completely ignored him. He smiled when he first sat, but then paid no attention to him whatsoever until John had decided to tell Sherlock of his deductions.

     

John had described that the magnifying glass was to prove that he had to look closer at the words to find out what they meant. The sign language book was all about how they wouldn’t need words to convey how they felt. The mirror was about who was staring back. Everything was about John. The words, adjectives, had all been to describe John. Sherlock had thought that John was all of those things.

Sherlock smiled brightly and looked genuinely at John. He then raised his right hand and extended his pointer finger, pinky, and thumb while keeping his middle and ring fingers down against his palm. John returned the sign.

Soon after that, John got a text from Mrs. Hudson stating that she needed John’s help in her flat. It had almost been six o’ clock, three hours since John met with Sherlock, and John still hadn’t said anything after they had talked. John exited Speedy’s without a word and made his way to Mrs. Hudson’s flat to help with whatever her current crisis was.

John ordered the lot and then made his way downstairs to start up dinner with what food they had left. It was starting to get late, and Sherlock should have been home from his meeting with Mary-Anne by the time dinner was ready.

John started the pot of water and another saucepan filled with diced tomatoes and herbs. John did make an amazing homemade pasta sauce. John was a good cook, he just never did it because he hated the aftermath; having to do dishes. John hummed and danced along the whole time he cooked, and he didn’t notice when Sherlock did finally stroll in.

Sherlock turned inside the sitting area to look at John. When John turned around to set his spoon on the center counter, he saw Sherlock in the middle of the room. Their synched heartbeats rang throughout the flat, and they both stood staring at one another.

Sherlock pulled away and put up a finger to signal John to ‘give him a second.’ John smirked and crossed his arms. He saw that Sherlock still wasn’t talking, and John was okay with that. He, personally, wished Sherlock would do other things with his mouth than talk.

Sherlock set his finished composition on the stand and brought his violin to his chin, looking over at John with a twinkle in his eye.  The violin began to sing the song. How it became more beautiful was a conundrum to John, but Sherlock had somehow done it. John noticed himself closing his eyes and swaying while Sherlock played.

When John did open his eyes, a clear haze blocked his vision. He could see the subtle outline of Sherlock with his bow suspended in midair and his violin still tucked underneath his jaw. John wiped away the tears and smiled broadly.

John launched himself at Sherlock and brought him into a hug. John just hummed sounds of delight in Sherlock’s ears, and Sherlock smiled at the mumbling. John pulled back after mumbling sweet nothing’s in Sherlock’s ear and pushed his lips against his taller flatmate’s. Sherlock tensed and stood stock-still until John stopped for a moment to breathe before kissing him again.

Sherlock turned his head and whispered ever so slightly into John’s ear.

“It’s titled Defying Boundaries. That, you are known for. You have never once remained to stay within the boundaries you were given. You’ve been labeled as loyal, ordinary, stubborn. You are far more loyal than everyone perceives you to be, you are nothing near ordinary, and stubborn is a very gentle term for my flatmate. You never cease to amaze me, John Watson. My love.”

John pulled away from the hug and took Sherlock’s face in his hands. Joyful tears streaming down his cheeks, Sherlock took John’s face in his hands. They placed their foreheads against one another and stood there.

John pulled away and made the same symbol that he did at the cafe, sign language for ‘I love you’. Sherlock returned the symbol, too. John pulled Sherlock in for a kiss, and Sherlock gladly accepted John’s offer. They kissed, sweetly and silently (forgo the smacking and wet sound of tongues every once in a while), and this time, there wasn’t any stiffness in Sherlock’s body.

Sherlock and John took each others’ bodies and hands and swept the other across the sitting room like a ballroom dance floor. Sherlock stopped in the middle to pull out his phone and start playing a recording of Defying Boundaries for him and John to dance to.

They danced and danced until John’s pasta had severely burned and tomatoes had charred. Sherlock never did stop the music, though. He had it on repeat throughout the night; through thai, kissing, cuddling, more dancing, and scraping burnt spaghetti off of a pot.

Sherlock turned to John before he fell asleep and formed the symbol yet again. Then, he flattened his palm and placed it over John’s heart. John did the same to Sherlock.

John supposes some things are just better said without words.

**Author's Note:**

> Hah! I hope you all like it! I plan on having this one be relatively short. I'm currently working on the next few chapters, so it should all be up within the next week or two. I hope you like this writing style. I'm a very heavily dialogue-oriented person, so it's challenging to write something so...quiet. I hope you all liked it! Make sure to leave ideas and corrections in the comments.  
> Cheers! xx


End file.
